The Forgotten

Lynden made his way out of the castle down the side passages and out the kitchen the same way he went in. He spared no greeting to the workers on the way out this time, his mind was in pieces from what he had been told. Rendall had been put in prison. He had spent the best part of the last year trying to find and release Arthur but now Rendall as well.

“I should have stayed with him.” He muttered to himself.

The night that Lynden had told the boy to go was the very same night that he had been held up by the guards at the gatepost entering the town. While he knew he could take the guards himself, especially given how drunk they were, he didn’t want any more violence. Instead, he took a risk.

He told them of the orders that King Myval would have them and the army carry out while he was general of the army. Murdering villages, raping and plundering all to make other kingdoms look guilty. Inciting war, he and his men would then mop up both sides and take two territories for his own.

The guards did not believe him at first, such a tale and a supposed plan had too many variables that could go wrong. However, on showing them one of the letters that Lynden and Myval exchanged there could be no further doubt. It was in the king’s own hand and royal seal printed on the bottom, outlining the death of a small village called Mydorat bordering the kingdoms of Locklia and Hisdoran. Both kingdoms had disputed their claim to this village for years. While war had never broken out between the two sides, it was always a sore point that had troops from either side temporarily garrisoned there.

The guard who had been there that night holding the halberd had soon sobered up after hearing the news. His face, red from the alcohol, had turned a pale white. Whether it was the realisation of the murder that he would be taking part in or if he was about to throw up, Lynden could not be sure. All three guards though had no words to share after they had seen the letter. They and Lynden just sat there for hours but as Lynden got up from his seat after the fireplace in the room had died, none stopped him.

It should have been him to end rapists’ lives, not Rendall. Even if he had cleansed the streets, he took no pleasure in knowing that the boy was the sword of those deaths. Since a young lad, Rendall had been forced again and again to live out hardships of a man three times his age.

Guilt welled up inside Lynden, while he believed the boy should live happily in a warm home he also wanted to use the boy to bring down the king. If he is right, Rendall has as much claim to the throne as Myval. The monarchy in the land does not follow a line of succession through the oldest child much like other kingdoms that often fail. In the land of Renvale the king or queen can obtain such title through either challenging the current ruler in three settings, political, combat and their frame with the people.

No son or daughter has ever challenged the previous ruler as they are guaranteed to be disliked by the people. Instead, when all children are of age they are given the right to challenge their siblings to become first in line. Should they lose and ever wish to challenge again, they must wait five years.

It is rumoured that Myval had killed his older brother, but no proof was ever found. The youngest child, Rendall, was born ten years later and could never challenge until he was of age. Out of the three, it was his oldest that possessed no powers but an unrivalled swordsman at a young age, many times better than Lynden. Rendall, on the other hand, was always too young to gauge what lineage he would follow, though his silver eyes from birth to match his mothers hinted that he would one day me animal bonded and a true ruler of peace. Myval though was different from both, spending most of his time in the library when not tormenting people. The magic the man now possessed wasn’t something he inherited but developed through age, something that only through death and sacrifice could have been uncovered.

Myval was never loved by the people, nor was he a decent politician but enforced rule with threats and violence. He was very skilled with blades of any type. Knives, swords and scimitars. He was only second to Lynden who held nothing back in the last arena bout just before Myval came to the throne. It was one of the reasons he didn’t like Lynden.

He would love for Rendall to challenge Myval yet no one could confirm his claim.

Now deep in thought, he couldn’t help wonder why Rendall had left the castle and why did he look like the old Queen, sharing those unique eyes. The king and queen should have known that being their most loyal general and soldier, he would have protected the boy and left the army in good and capable hands. Alas what happened is done and now he hated it. But he wanted Rendall to become a leader to unite the people and overthrow the tyrant that ruled the kingdom, although that would not happen until the boy was free from prison with his friend Arthur.

Lynden’s thoughts took him back to Wanderer’s Warren. He hadn’t remembered any part of the walk here, but his body seemed to do it without direction. Jessica was at the bar, leaning off it with a table cloth over her right shoulder with hands on her hips. Her curvy figure showed through the purple and white knee-length dress her was wearing with a dirty white apron over the top. He never blamed the girl for using her body in the tavern, it got her extra tips and she didn’t mind the attention while easily handling anyone who was too cocky with a slap to the face. Though if that didn’t work, she would have the backup of both men and women in the bar.

Walking over to the plain-faced Lynden, she said, “Hello stranger”.

Standing there for a moment, she waved in front of his face and repeated, “Lynden?”

Finally, she slowly ran her figures down the side of his cheek while trying again, “Come on, take a seat. I’ll get you something to eat.”

She took him over to an empty table at the side of the bar where the noise had died down to only a few whispers. Leaving him for a moment, she went to the bar to fetch him an ale along with a hunk of bread and bowl of freshly cooked stew from the kitchen.

On the way back to the table, a man with a shaved head wearing a fine red tunic with gold buttons slapped Jessica on the behind while walking past. He had either too many drinks that morning or hadn’t sobered up from the night before. It made little difference. Lynden caught the act in the corner of his eye. He got up, and walked over to the man showing no emotion.

The drunkard saw the looming tower approaching him, realising that he was not going to match the man’s brawn drew his knife from his belt, pointing it at the man.

“Don’t you come any closer if you know what’s good for you.” The man said while slurring each word.

Lynden didn’t even flinch. He walked over to the man grabbing his hand that held the weapon, twisting it. The drunkard dropped the knife with a yelp, trying and failing to knock off Lynden’s grip with his free hand.

Still, without making noise, Lynden grabbed the scruff of the man’s tunic, pulling away a button in and dragging him through the bar.

Someone had clearly thought it a good idea not to antagonise him as the door to the inn had already been opened. With little more effort, Lynden walked out the door throwing the man to the ground where he rolled into the wall on the other side.

Sparing not another glance at the man now in a heap on the floor, Lynden turned and went to walk back into the tavern when he paused. The troublemaker mumbled several insults and curses at the man.

“Is that all you got?” Coughing between the next sentence and rising to his knees he continues “Maybe next time I’ll pull the wench close, or better yet I’ll just wait till she finishes and take her back to bed with me.”

Lynden looked back, drew his sword from his belt and walked over. He plunged the blade into the man’s shoulder.

Speaking softly and into the drunkard’s ear, “Touch her again, better yet, if I see or hear you again, you won’t live to tell the tale.”

Lynden stood back up and pulled the sword out, using the man’s clothing to clear the weapon of the blood.

No more words were said when he walked back into the tavern to his table where Jessica had placed the stew and ale.

She looked at him, softly placing a hand on his side, “What’s happened?”

He told her about Rendall and his guilt over the incident. He went on to describe how even after all these months he had not been able to release Arthur. Finally, he explained how he felt he had abandoned his troops, not all of them were bad men and perhaps if he stayed he might have been able to prevent the raids or perhaps could have even lead an uprising against the king. It was however too late for that.

Jessica listened to him, not interrupting once. When he had finished, she sat there for a moment taking it all in. No words could make him feel any better, he was, after all, a man of action.

Looking at him, into his brown eyes, she said, “Well, you’re not alone, now let’s come up with a plan.”

They sat there for hours toying with plans of break-ins to infiltrating the guard, neither of which would work. That last one, however, did give Jessica an idea. She remembered how the three guards were sympathetic to Lynden’s story and while drunk at the time, perhaps they could be persuaded to help them.

“What about the three guards you met at the gatehouse, do they have names?”

Thinking for a moment before he replied, Lynden said, “Draven, Collop and Reece if my memory serves correctly, why?”

“Do their duties always have them at watchtower just outside the town?”

“No, there is usually a rotation in place for the city guard so that there is no dissent between the men about the posts they receive. At least that is how I ran the army when I was general, things may have changed by now.”

“Perhaps we could talk to the men, they might be willing to help. If they could get to the prison, breaking Rendall out may be possible. Even if they don’t stand by the gate outside the cells, if they were to get you in there with a weapon I’m sure you could at least battle your way in and out.”

Smirking at Jessica then, the voice of reason and straight-headed thinking had always put him right.

Lifting her hand to his mouth, he kissed it gently before laying it softly back on the table.

“Thank you Jessica.” He said before getting up from his seat at the table, the stew now eaten but the ale barely touched.

He made his way to the tavern door, opened it and pointed to the drunkard bleeding outside, “If that man steps foot in here again, you tell me.”